05-03-03 - 5:28 am
Ruffage.
Carnage.
It's three days from the present and I can't see who is holding me there. Camaflouge flying vehicles have yet to be manufactured. Can't read the expression on the manchild's face.
Hunger.
Mangled.
It's eight minutes from the three days from the "present" and I can't touch my arm. We have yet to make a real independant artificial organism. Repetitive laughter can horrify a young candidate in this climate. Better to err on the side of caution, I think.
Curviture.
Uncomfort.
I've decided to take on a new identity for anyone who thought of me as a friend. Get back to me on the details or pay no attention at all.
Effort.
Increments.
I've got no sympathy for bull fighters. If this offends you I suggest you think of me when dressing a wound or cleaning an infection. Otherwise stay out of my backyard.
Disgust.
Blasphemy.
I'm not going to cuss right now. This man has a picture of his mother that he takes with him everywhere and he licks his palms and rubs his chest and breathes heavily on strangers necks and wishes that someday he will become a great sports caster with a house that has bark on the floor and ceiling so he can poo poo and pee pee wherever he deems.
Why doesn't the sun burn my skin off? Why don't my mouth and anus and other holes in my body become infected? The answer is that there is a thick invisible layer of black magic surrounding my body. The first time I discovered this I was 5 years old, playing in a sand box on a sunny Sunday afternoon. I looked at my arm. It all hit me at once. The other kid in the sand box didn't believe me so I hit him in his black magic conductor organ. It is located deep in the throat under the adams apple. The kid instantly choked to death on the poisonous infectious atmosphere that surrounds us. When his parents came back for him, they thanked me for ridding them of the terrible burden that plagued them for so many years. So I said "My names David Makalaster your 10 o clock news caster." And they died.
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